


Mornings Ever After

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Stay the Night (and Every Morning After) [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And found-family feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Kraglin and Yondu are an old married couple, M/M, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post GOTG 2, Ravager romance, Spooning, Team Bonding, Team as Family, despite not being actually, married, mostly dorky humor, not nearly as angsty as it sounds, y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-22 22:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Quill swans off on a jaunt with Kraglin, leaving Yondu to babysit his team. It goes about as well as can be expected - especially when those pesky nightmares start acting up again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Here we go! The long(ish) awaited (hopefully) sequel to _Stay The Night_. While this can be read as a stand-alone, to an extent, it's probably best to check that fic out first, if you haven't already. This fic does have a lighter tone in comparison (although there are still some good ol' nightmare-induced moments of angst), but on the whole, _Stay The Night_ provides a good basic groundwork for the inter-team relationships depicted here.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Peter and Kraglin take Mantis on her very first adventure, and Yondu ain't worried one bit**

“Just for a week, sir,” Kraglin says. “Ain't that long, not really.”

“Good riddance,” Yondu replies. Where does Kraglin get off, acting like his captain needs _reassurance?_ “Hey, when's the last time I went so long without seein’ yer ugly mug?”

“Can't remember.” He sounds disturbingly honest about it. Yondu, who relies on Kraglin to keep track of everything he can't be bothered to (or doesn't have space for in his head, or, as happens with growing frequency, he can't quite remember), finds this disconcerting.

“Seriously? We're really that... y'know.”

“Attached at the hip?” Quill offers. He's prepping his blasters on the scuffed and pockmarked table, which they've dragged into the middle of the storage hold that acts as their shuttle's mess. He's taking Mantis for her first ever excursion as an official Guardian, and has invited Kraglin along for the ride. They're hoping that between Kraglin's street-smarts and Quill's ability to shoot most things he aims at, they'll be able to keep their naïve lil’ bug on the outside of a casket.

Yondu would laugh at the idea that Quill needs back-up, because how much trouble does the brat seriously expect to encounter on a stake out? But he knows the boy well enough by now to never underestimate his ability to cause mayhem, firefights, and the occasional explosion of a moon, seemingly by dint of his mere presence.

“Disgustingly domestic,” Quill continues, ever-eager to eke amusement at Yondu's expense, “in a weird and piratey sorta way?”

“Like an old married couple,” chortles Rocket. He's picking dead bark off Groot's back opposite. It's kinda gross, but fuzzball insists that the kiddo needs regular grooming to grow, like a snake shedding its skin, and Yondu ain't really one to lecture on hygiene. “Hey Blue, why ain't you two tied the knot?”

They do that every other night, given the fun surprise lurking behind Kraglin's zipped-up fly. But Kraglin answers before Yondu can snigger: “Centaurians don't have matrimonial rites.”

He makes that statement with far too much confidence. Like he's (stars forbid) done research.

Yondu squints at him side-on. By now, he's recovered from his void-diving adventure (or thereabouts). Their ship is abustle with new life, and flush with new money too – courtesy of Stakar lifting the shun-order on his name. Yondu is due a meeting at the captain's table, come the start of the next astral month. He's already beginning to regret the years he spent mooning after what he'd lost when Stakar cast him out. If hindsight is twenty-twenty, it's also very rose-tinted, and he'd somehow managed to forget just how much _paperwork_ and _calm debates_ and _civil discussions with our trade partners, dammit Yondu, I said_ civil;  _how does that translate to 'threatening to stick their goolie sacks together with your arrow'_ is involved in space piracy.

“How'd ya know that?” he asks Kraglin. “ _I_ didn't know that!”

“Ya mean you ain't never looked up yer species in the _Xandarian Geographic_?” At Yondu's bewildered headshake, his amused expression takes a turn for the incredulous. “Seriously, sir? That's like, the first rule of interspecies dating! Ya didn't check out Hraxian junk as soon as we started, y'know -”

“Fucking,” Peter says. Then, when Yondu shoots him a glare - “What? Ain't like I'm eight years old anymore. Although _that_ certainly never stopped you when I walked in -”

“You _walked in on us?_ ”

“Yeah, first week. Kudos to Kraglin, because Yondu didn't notice.”

“Ew.” Rocket presses his hands over where Groot's ears might sit, if he had any. “C'mon, guys. Kid in the room.”

“I am Groot?”

“I'll tell ya when you're older.”

Yondu snorts. “Why we botherin' about keepin' things clean for Twig here? He prob'ly procreates with spores, or some shit.” A pause, during which Peter turns a fascinating shade of green, and stares at Groot as if the little guy just recited all ninety verses of the Nova Corps anthem in fluent Xandarian.

“So back on the Dark Aster, that was your... Oh, buddy. We gotta have a talk about personal space.”

"I am Groot?"

Rocket looks primed to jump into an argument in his friend's defence – or fish out a biology textbook. While Yondu ain't got the first clue what his boy's on about (yeah, _his;_ he said it (in his head, because he hasn't quite made the psychophysical jump to making it verbal)) his poor shuttle has suffered enough from the incendiary devices Rocket keeps stashed on his person. Luckily, Peter intervenes. 

"C'mon guys – let's get out of here. Krags, you packed?”

Kraglin nods. Then, in the ensuing silence as Quill waits for him to produce luggage, peels back his sleeve to reveal a knife encased in a lead-lined scanner-deflector sheathe, and pats the holsters on his hips. Quill shakes his head. “No clothes? Not even a change of underwear?”

“Why? We’re only goin’ for one week.”

“Lost cause,” Rocket mutters, although Yondu's just as confused as Kraglin. Quill points at the pair of them.

“Don't let Gamora catch you talking like that. She'll bundle you into the showers and hose you down - and not in a sexy way either. Woman's a cleaning maniac.”

Yondu wouldn't go that far. As far as he can tell, Greenie simply doesn't appreciate inhaling airborn fungal matter. But that already puts her several bars above Quill, and an entire ladder over her Ravager co-habitors. No matter how long the newbies from Knowhere lathe their wire-scourers across the _Eclector’s_ internal plating, grime is ingrained into this shuttle's very bolts. It'll take more than a spruce of air freshener to rid the Bridge of the funk of bad breath and testosterone.

Mantis is the only member of the outbound crew to look nervous. Kiddo has been trying to apologize to Yondu ever since she let slip that secret – _I only touched him to soothe his nightmares -_ and Yondu booted her out so that she could select a new cabinmate from Rocket and Drax.

Quill keeps nagging him to tell her outright that she's forgiven, because she's only gonna mope otherwise. But Yondu's a proud self-proclaimed a-hole. If a pretty lass offers to run and fetch him rotgut, and polish his boots, and buff the buckles on his arrow harness – not actually a euphemism, which would surprise anyone who thought they knew him – far be it from him to deny her.

Drax isn't of the same opinion. Gamora has, coincidentally, been employed with keeping Drax at least three corridors and a ventilation duct from Yondu at any given time. This is easier said than done, as Yondu has been tramping around the ship as much as he can, enjoying being able to walk more than ten paces without leaning on a wall or crumpling like a deflating balloon.

 

When this job first flagged up on the radar, Quill had said with entirely too much optimism that Yondu and Drax would be firm friends by the time Mantis was ready for a mission. Now, he doesn't look so sure. He dithers over snapping the plasma components together on his pistols, though it's a ritual he's performed a thousand times before.

Yondu scoffs. “Y'all gonna bugger off an' make me money, or what?”

“Not doing this for profit,” Quill says. He begins the complex reassembly process, working on repetitive memory more than thought: bolt into lock, lock down, panels clamped, quarter-squeeze of the trigger while facing the weapon at an unoccupied wall to check for charge spurts. “This one's pro bono. Not dangerous in the slightest – just some white-collar a-hole who’s suspected of forgery. The Nova corps want us to sit on him while they smoke his assets. We’re reporting on his comings and goings, nothing more - not making a single unit either.” Yondu yawns. “...And I just lost your attention. Okay. It’s a taster for Mantis, more than anything.”

Mantis, usually so eager to sample everything the galaxy has to offer (up to and including sex, which Gamora had sat her down and talked her through, keeping her face cyborg-still so as not to betray her discomfort while Yondu guffawed in the background) is straining away from this new experience. Or rather, from the gun that Quill holds out to her, hilt-first. “I – I do not like hurting people...”

“It's for your protection only. Heart crossed, we're not gonna be doing any hurting.” Pause. “Unless things go _really_ wrong.” Another pause. “Which they often do in our line of work. Look, I'll be with you every step of the way. You probably won't have to use it, but _just in case..._ Take it for me, won't you? So I can be sure you're safe.”

And he raises his other hand, palm open and inviting, so she can read his sincerity.

She takes it. Her antennae glow, her pinched expression fades, and she accepts the pistol, holding it by the muzzle like it's something dirty. Peter smiles like he's hand-fed a nervous critter at the zoo and treats her shoulder to a proud squeeze.

Yondu pulls a face. There’s too much sentiment being bandied around for his liking.

Quill taking jobs out of the goodness of his heart, letting Bug into his head without so much as a flinch... It makes Yondu uncomfortable. Quill is exposing his weak spots one after the other, like he's trying to hit a quota. It won't be long before someone takes advantage. Ideally, he'd tag along on this mission. But they recently made a recruitment stop on Knowhere, and now there's too much to be done - work to allocate, Nebula to watch, and his first report to prepare for, to be given at the round table on the _Starhawk_ before the accumulated clans.

While Yondu is not-slash-refuses-to-be nervous, he does want to make a good first impression. Second first impression. Is that even a thing?

Either way – he has resolved to use this week to consolidate his plans for the reconstruction of his faction. And maybe at the end of it, he'll get one of those coveted nods from Stakar, the ones he used to hoard.

 

...And Kraglin just asked him a question, while he's staring absently into space.

“Huh?” says Yondu. Quill kicks his shin.

“He _said,_ you senile fart, can you go help him find another pair of underpants. Which I assume means 'make us all super-uncomfortable when we hear you yowling as he hammers you.' Again.”

Yondu flips him a finger. The middle one, to be precise. “Brat. Ain't my fault my cabin was on the bit of the _Eclector_ what blew up.”

“Jerk. It kinda _is_ your fault. I mean, you coulda built it in here – then you'd have had a soundproofed seal on your lock, and the rest of us wouldn't have to suffer.”

Yondu makes to argue back, and list every incident where he accidentally feasted his eyes on naked pink Terran, back from when Quill went through his phase of Fucking Every Sentient Species With Tits, and only occasionally remembered to stick a courtesy sock on the door handle of whatever storage closet they'd commandeered for the task. But Quill holds up a hand, shaking his head.

“We got an hour before we blast off. You really wanna spend it with me?”

Yondu grits his teeth and growls. Then – cool new trick, courtesy of Rocket – flashes his crest. Red light waxes Quill's face.

If Yondu ever bothered with flicking through an issue of the _Xandarian Geographic_ , he would know that the Centaurian tahlei is mobile, and used predominantly for mating and/or threat displays. Himself, he only recalls what snippets he can from experience. It folded flat to his back when his master dragged him from his cage at night, and tentatively hovered at half-mast if he was offered food afterwards, and floofed up to its full height when he was facing off against someone bigger than he was in the battle arenas. 

Quill blinks startled glare from his eyes. “Huh. That's bright.”

“Unlike you. Alright kid. You say ta-ta to yer girlie. Me and Kraglin have underwears to find.”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin finds some. They're on Yondu.

They're removed in short order, and Yondu moans louder than ever just to piss Quill off. Gotta give the kid something to remember him by, during his week of holidaying.

After they've mopped up and sauntered out, Quill ain't the first person they run into. It's a new Ravager, fresh on the block. She blinks boggle-eyed between Kraglin and Yondu, then back again, then forth, over and over. Then she meeps, salutes, remembers she ain't running with the Nova no more, amends herself with a thud of her chest that slops the contents of her bucket down the front of her new red jacket, and scarpers. Yondu observes her scrambling exodus with no little amusement. Kraglin, by his side, isn't so charmed.

“We gotta get a damn soundproofer, boss,” he says. Slants his eyes at Yondu. “Or a gag.”

They've been experimenting a little, as of late. More than Yondu would have allowed, or even dreamed of, a few years back. He's been pleasantly surprised by how painless it's been. Nevertheless, that might be the tipping point.

Kraglin recognizes that look in his eyes. He's trained himself to spot it – the expression that means Yondu's on the cusp of saying _no,_ but can't bring himself to, and needs someone else to speak the word so he doesn't feel like a coward, afraid he'll devolve into a snarling, snapping, desperately fighting mess the moment a leather strip is forced between his teeth and a blade pressed to his crest...

Kraglin backs up, hands raised. He plasters on a cheeky smile. “The gag's for me, sir.”

Now that, Yondu can get behind. Saying Kraglin ain't the noisy one will only bring this conversation full circle, and that ain't a subject Yondu's keen to embrace again in a hurry. So he grins, lascivious as ever, and treats Kraglin's crotch to a slow and sultry groping that, had this been twenty years back, would've provided ample rejuvenation for Round Two. “M'thinking red ball. Matches the bloodshot in yer eyes...”

But they're both getting on, as Quill likes to term it when he's in a rare polite mood. And anyway, there's a mission due. Kraglin squirms happily at the fondling, and sneaks a thigh between Yondu's to return it – but there ain't no heat, only comfort and an odd sense of _belonging_ that skyrockets when Kraglin tips his chin up into a kiss.

The second recruit to come wandering round the corner ain't so subtle as the first. He drops his bucket. Then, when Yondu's glare snaps around, squeals like a stuck pig before the arrow even hits him. It doesn't – Yondu leaves it dangling in the air a millimeter from searing his nostril hairs.

“Scat,” he growls.

The kid does so, and Yondu turns to his first mate before his sneer has time to fall off his face, arrow nipping to its holster. “We gotta do somethin' about this. You sure ya wanna be so... Y'know. Obvious?”

“Yes,” says Kraglin fervently, before he can finish. Then coughs and peeps at Yondu from under his lashes. “Um. If yer okay with it, sir. What you say goes boss, like always.”

And just like always, Kraglin has far more sway over him than anyone else. Yondu sighs. He sends him towards the airlocks with a parting clonk of their foreheads – and a lil' ass-slap for luck. “Catch ya in a week then, Obfonteri.”

“Yessir.”

No 'goodbye'. No 'be safe'. If they need to be said, they ain't worth saying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I love comments! Any chapter, any time. Art/inspired fic/recs/etc is always, always welcome.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu gets some shut-eye, Rocket counsels, and Gamora hears something she shouldn't**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CN: nightmares, insinuated past noncon**

The lack of an air-sealing lock is all fine and dandy when you're looking to gross out your brat and his buddies, maybe even traumatize a few lucky members of your crew. But hearing Yondu holler as he's nailed against the mattress is one thing. Hearing him all-out _shriek_ is another.

Yondu might have more job security now that Stakar has extended his support (and, by virtue of this, promised to mete vengeance upon anyone who dares usurp him without filling out thirty two forms, scheduling an official meeting with the captains, and providing an hour long holo-point presentation on why they think they're cut out for leadership). But there's still such things as _respect,_ and _image_ and _reputation._ He needs to be a commander. A captain. Someone who can muster resolve, lead troops into battle, encourage men even when they ain't got no prospects except a plasma bolt through the heart and a chest thump from their comrades in remembrance.

Not someone who has _nightmares._

He lasted five days without sleep in the jail cell, back when Quill was a kid. Ain't no way he's managing seven. Not when he’s pushing fifty (if he hasn't already reached it. Kinda hard to keep track – his statistics hadn't come included when Stakar bought him. He'd been assigned the age of 'twenty' very tentatively, if only because, as Stakar would admit on the day of his tribunal, as he ceremoniously stripped him of his rankings and banished him and his crew to the void, because the Ravager Admiral had balked at allocating a younger age to a body so scarred.)

He certainly can't go skipping naptime when he's expected to function at full-operational ability. But this doesn't stop him from trying.

However, after only a single night-cycle spent huddled miserably on Kraglin's cold bed-half and forcing himself to count the revolutions of his chronometer, he's yawning non-stop and he keeps falling over his own goddamn feet.

Luckily, being cap'n means he can park his ass and let others do the legwork. Unluckily, being cap'n means he's under constant scrutiny.

The Bridge is a furor of training; hands being guided around joysticks while others are slapped away. They've hired five folks who claim to have nav-experience, and it took Yondu approximately an hour to work out that four of them had lied. Serves him right for not demanding resumes. The fifth is doing her best, but you can't make bricks without clay and right now she barely has plasticine.

They'll get it together though. Yondu knows it.

He scooches up from where he's slouched – best not get too horizontal, in case he nods off – and resists the urge to comm Kraglin.

No need to check what he's doing. He's got Yondu on speed-dial, and he ain't too proud to call for back-up if he needs it. All in all, there's no reason for Yondu to worry.

And, to be fair, he's _not worried._ He just misses having someone to laugh along when he yells crude things about the mother of the poor boy who's huffing away on the nav rig in the corner, struggling to calibrate shield oscillations with engine flare. That's the only reason his fingers itch over the broadcast button. Not because he wants to hear his voice.

He should probably be more concerned about Quill. Lad has a knack for getting on the bad sides of folks who decorate their throne rooms with severed heads. Seven days without the supervision of anyone sensible (a select class which, in Yondu's mind, contains himself, Stakar, and possibly Gamora) ain't quite on 'probable planetary disaster' level, but it's close.

Rocket scampers up the back of his chair, as he's taken to doing. He perches with his hind claws scuffing Yondu's shoulder guard.

Yondu would shrug 'em off, had they belonged to anyone else. But, well, the kid _did_ fix his arrow. And making his crest glow is kinda fun. It spooks the newbies when he lurks in dark corners, and gives him and Kraglin a light source by which to conduct their mutual orifice-exploration, should their cabin's glitchy solar panel ever fritz. He can afford to be lenient.

“What.”

Lenient-ish.

Rocket bypasses the gruffness with an ease that comes from utilizing this defensive tactic all too often himself. “You got bags under your eyes I could stash spare parts in, Blue.”

Yondu settles against the metal. It ain’t comfy, but over the many, many years during which he's commanded from this post, it has worn to the shape of his ass, as much as a hunk of steel can.

(Kraglin had once offered, with a twitch in his cheek, to be his pillow. Kraglin had also been kneed in the nuts.)

“You approachin' a point?”

“My point's that yer too dang old to be fooling about like this. You wanna call your man, call him. Just enough with the longing looks at your damn watch -”

“I ain't lookin' longingly at nothin' -”

“Sure you ain't. Just like my tail ain't furry.”

Yondu practises his nastiest smirk. “I could change that.”

That bandit mask doesn't widen in the slightest. Rocket looks resolutely unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. You keep making them threats, Blue. Just remember – I ain't fallin' for none of that.”

“Because yer me, right?”

“You got it.”

Reason number two that he kinda wishes he'd been left floating in the black past Ego's collapsing atmosphere, Peter's face cupped between ice-cracked palms (the first being that it had been what he intended, and Yondu ain’t used to not getting his way). At least then he wouldn't have to deal with a stars-damned _rodent,_ acting like he's Yondu's galactically-ordained agony-aunt.

Had he been a few decades younger - hell, even a year! - Yondu would've given lip. Maybe whistled for good measure. But now, he can assess all that time he spent trying to push away Quill, Kraglin, Stakar, and everyone else who he suspected gave a damn about him. He can take stock of where he is now: master of his own ship (greatly reduced, but his own nevertheless), back in the official fleet with a first mate by his side, and a sort-of-son who's become the biggest darn hero in the galaxy.

Not the future Yondu had in mind for Quill. But damn if he ain't proud.

Anyway, he can see what the Yondu of yesteryear couldn't. All efforts to force his idiots out of his life only made 'em more determined to stay. It's like making that weird Xandarian custard-crap Quill sings the praises of. The firmer and faster you stir, the stiffer it becomes.

He sighs. “Fuzzball, you wanna spout off in my ear all day, or do ya wanna fetch me some soldier pills so I can at least pretend to be awake?”

Rocket scoffs something about _not being a maid._ But next time Yondu yawns, listing sideways on his chair like he's considering toppling, Rocket barks for him to stay put, and scurries off to do his bidding.

Yondu smirks. And Quill said the rodent was hardest of the lot to handle? Honestly – did he teach that brat nothing?

 

* * *

 

The concentrated energy-capsules help. But only for a limited time frame. After eight hours, when Yondu's sat at his desk and boredly sketching heists on his data pad, occasionally making to ask Kraglin for an opinion that will be neither listened to nor taken into account, before remembering he ain't there, he's so knackered he barely strips and makes it to their beds.

Face first on the pillows ain't the most elegant way to collapse. But, Yondu figures, sleepily gathering a mouthful of sour-tasting cotton, should any lil' accidents of the screamy variety occur, at least it'll be a muffler.

 

* * *

 

It ain't.

Yondu wakes to the snap of a whip. Internal, thankfully, but it echoes on his eardrums long after he's opened his eyes. The lights flick on as he bolts up, quivering from his prosthetic to his toes.

Sitting doesn't make things better. This ain't his regular cabin, and there ain't no Kraglin besides him, and this _ain't his goddam bed_.

His brain, ringing from where he'd thwacked the crest off the bars as he thrashed, concludes that he's been loaned out for the night, and promptly goes into shutdown.

But he's dealt with this a thousand times, and will a thousand times again. This ain't no different. Just because he's gotten used to having Kraglin snuggled up against him when they sleep - a sweaty, smelly, stick-thin carpet of a man, as far from a Kree as any bipedal critter could get without sprouting tentacles -it doesn't mean he's reliant on him.

...Or so Yondu is determined to prove. Kraggles would laugh himself into an early grave if he found out about this. (Or rather, he'd make that small sad frown of his, and change the subject. Then the next time they're both awake, horny, and in the same vicinity, he'll fuck him far sweeter and slower than Yondu deserves.)

But whether or not he misses the git, Yondu has his own mechanisms. While in that first blaze of animal terror they go flying out the airlock (along with all higher-functioning thought), it takes mere moments for him to recall them.

He clamps down on the next noise before it can claw its way from his chest. He gathers tight fistfuls of sheet, slippery with sweat. He shuts his eyes, then opens them, a controlled blink which lasts four counts of an inhale and four counts of an ex, until the room has stopped spinning and the shadows no longer flow into the shapes of reaching, hungry Kree.

He’s on his ship. He’s cap’n. He's safe.

...His _tahlei_ hurts.

It ain't been there for nearing four decades now, but it still hurts.

Dammit all to Thanos.

He grabs his watch. It had been unstrapped and left on the bedside table, as is his custom so he don't smack it against anything when he's fighting off imaginary attackers. He swears in garbled Kree when his shaking hands fumble it into the dark, damp place between his body and the sheet, and flinches at the sound of that language from his own mouth.

What had it been about this time? He barely remembers – never does. It all blurs together; the pain, the fear, the vulnerability, the _please no more, please master, please..._

If Yondu hates begging, he hates it still more when he ain't got no control over it. It's like a piece of his subconscious is rotten. Lodged under the surface, a cancerous mote of weakness that he wrestles down with sheer strength of will. A part that still quivers when he lays eyes on a Kree; a part that has always been, and will always be, _Battle Slave 12213._

Eventually, his body catches up with his brain. It doesn't take long – not nearly so long as it used to. He rescues the watch and smacks it until it turns on, timing himself to the comforting scroll of numbers.

But Yondu's still breathing like he's just come from the racetrack by the time Gamora bursts through his door, sword at the ready.

Adrenaline is making the rounds. Yondu's attempt to simultaneously throw the sheet over his crotch, scramble upright, and whistle, results in him faceplanting once more on the mattress, and probably letting slip a bit more grizzled blue than the poor lass is comfortable with. More fool her for barging in.

“What?” Yondu croaks, once his heart is no longer filling his throat. He glowers at her, daring her to take one step over the threshold. “Ain't no one here but me. Unless yer gonna stick me with yer poker, ya can put it away.”

Her eyes flit from side to side anyway, scanning each corner for danger. Her sword shines as bright as the metalwork integrated through the bones of her delicate face. “I thought I heard -”

No sense lying. “You did.”

“Oh.” Gamora waits a moment, just in case. Then sheathes her blade with a quiet rustle and looks at him instead. “Are you -”

“Don't.”

She doesn't.

“Do you need anything?” she asks instead. Gestures to the glass he left on his bedside table three weeks ago and has looked at every morning since and thought 'I should do something about that'. “You guzzled that fast. Did you want a refill?”

He doesn't have the heart to tell her how long it's been there. Greenie'd probably drag him to the medbay and scan him for Legionnaires’.

They're all so goddam _wary_ around him – and not even _of_ him, which Yondu would greatly prefer. It's like they think they've gotta pitch in to his upkeep, teamwork style, so there's something left for when Kraglin and Peter return.

Well, Yondu don't need their help.

“Why were ya up?” he asks instead, scooching the glass an inch towards her. She recognizes the unspoken offer to approach and takes him up on it, padding silently over plated steel floors.

“Cybernetics mean that I require three hours of sleep a night. Any more, and I get woozy.”

Yondu can't imagine this knife-thin, deadly woman woozy if she chugged a whole barrel of moonshine. He whistles, impressed, and is moreso when she controls her flinch, and the instinctual check of his arrow. “Thassa lot of spare time, Green. What'chu do with it?”

“Weapons preparation, going over mission plans, meditation...”

She catches Yondu's incredulous look. And the loud creak of the overhead masonry, as the ship resettles in its gravitational field, orbiting the planet where Quill and Kraglin are babysitting their precious Bug. “I. Used to do it in silence, when I resided at Titan Crag. Now however, I find the shuttle’s background noise... conducive. Peter lets me borrow his walkman, if I want music. It helps.”

She sounds almost as awkward discussing it as he does. Next thing you know she'll be offering him the damn thing in some slapshod attempt at comfort – because Quill's got his Zune now, and the Guardians have vetoed his toting of two music boxes at once. Yondu stops her before she can try.

“Run along and plug yerself in then, Green. An' be sure to turn the volume up real loud.”

Gamora sighs, standing from the bed with a grind of internal hydraulics. She gives Yondu one of those long, soul-searching looks that he's really starting to hate when they're worn by anyone other than Kraglin. Then tries for a smile, and heads for the door at a lope that would make a gazelle look graceless.

Yondu waits until she returns, walk cycle so smooth that the fresh water barely slaps the glass. Treats her to a nod, tells her  _happy meditations,_ and ushers her out of his quarters before she can notice the pair of old socks in the corner that he and Kraglin have named Junior (it's a science project, of sorts; they're seeing how long they can leave 'em before they start to develop sentience).

“Take care, Yondu,” she says, from the other side of the door. Yondu returns the sentiments.

Then, wrapping his sheet more securely round his belly – but not before treating his balls to a leisurely scratch – he wanders to his desk, glass in hand, to burn the midnight oil.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments make the author grow stronger**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu wakes up, Groot is adorable, and a deal is struck.**

Next time he swims to consciousness, his face is stuck to a datapad.

Groot's giggling in his ear, and when he peels himself away, groaning, he finds Rocket kicking reproachfully at his blueprints, the crisp lines of which have been embellished almost beyond recognition by his illegible near-sleep scrawl.

“Wha' time’s it?”

“Past breakfast-hour. Food's all gone. I just came to see if you'd died.”

“Huh.” Yondu chuckles to himself, wincing as he works the crik from his neck. Prosthetic makes his head mighty heavy, and sleeping on a desk chair ain't the most comfortable at the best of times. Bits of him hurt that he didn't know _could._ “Now who's bein' an asshole for the hell of it?”

Rocket doesn't have an answer, not that Yondu was expecting one. He turns his attention to the youngest of his new collection of brats. Groot uses him as a climbing post. His bark feet scratch more than they tickle. He's had far worse though, and Yondu's counts himself lucky the cute lil bugger hasn't yet make a beeline for his underwear drawer (and, for that matter, that he’d selected one of the tamer garments in it last time he went rustling).

He carefully detaches the kid from his earlobe. Pulling his coat onto his bare shoulders from where it had been draped over the chair, he tucks him into his collar instead. Groot grasps happy handfuls of fur. He bundles the loose leather around him like it's a cape.

“Ain't'chu got work to do?” Yondu asks Rocket, with a hint of a scowl – although he knows it's impossible to look threatening when there's a baby tree playing peekaboo round your neck. “Keepin' my ship shipshape and the like?”

Rocket snorts. “It'd take a few miracles more than my considerable genius are capable of, to make yer rustbucket worthy of a Nova design prize, Blue.”

“Huh. Wonder whether Quill’d say the same if I gave him yer job...”

A gasp,. The starts of a denial; an accusation that Quill ain't capable of fixing his own damn music box when the batteries run down... All are hastily swallowed. In the words' stead, a clawed finger levels at him.

“You,” Rocket says, “are usin' my, uh, _competitive_ _nature_ against me.”

Yondu's jaw drops. “What? You got one of those? And here was me thinkin' you was the fluffiest, sweetest lil' button on board.”

The index finger is exchanged for a middle one. It's accompanied by a laugh though, and the Rat cosies a lil' closer, eyeing Yondu up for permission before settling on his chair arm.

Yondu's hand kinda naturally falls to rest on his head. As he doesn't come away with a new set of scratches, he counts it a victory. He stops petting the moment Rocket's ears flatten to his skull and he shuffles along the arm with an awkward cough. But it ain't no different to a cat that complains after it gets more than three precise belly rubs, and Rocket's tail curls against Yondu's outstretched palm in what Yondu suspects might just be happiness.

If Yondu stays here any longer, one kiddo trying to abseil down the straps of his arrow harness and the other perched within stroking distance, he's gonna get cavities. More cavities than he already has.

Yondu claps his hands. “Right. If we're all awake, les get back to work -”

Rocket's already shaking his head. He bounces upright, tail waving for balance – and dammit, Yondu remembers a time when he could hop to his feet and make it look effortless.

“No, _we're_ going to work,” he says, around his scowl. “You're going back to sleep, Blue. In your bed, this time. You don't gotta choice – me and Groot are too little to drag ya if yer unconscious, but don't think we won't knock you out and make a damn good try of it.”

Yondu laughs at the Rat's sheer audacity. Then figures that if he's being given an excuse to laze around for a morning and catch up on some much-needed shut-eye, why not make the most of it?

He wants to be all perky when Kraglin gets back, rather than the sagging blue lump he melts into after a few nights of interrupted sleep. Most of all, he doesn't want Kraglin to know about the _cause_ for that interruption. Because what if the idjit gets it into his head that this is somehow his fault, and he caused Yondu's nightmares through his absence?

God. He'd never have any alone-time again.

Yondu shudders. His mind supplies a scenario, scrolling out before his eyes like crackly old holo-reel footage, wherein Kraglin barges into the bathroom to brush his remaining teeth while Yondu's on the loo. That's one step further into domestic bliss than he's willing to tread.

That settles it. He'll nap now, and catch up with Greenie later. He doubts she'll need to be threatened into silence – or that it'd be effective if he tried. But he supposes he can offer her something instead. A tit-for-tat sorta deal. Her keeping shtum in exchange for Yondu allowing the Guardians to take on two pro bono missions per month rather than one, as has been initially agreed. If she needs convincing, he'll throw in a bonus – that he won't bitch about it either.

 

* * *

 

Greenie looks uncomfortable when Yondu takes her aside (after snoring until the lunch break buzzer, and no doubt throwing off his entire sleep schedule).

“You don't have to bribe me,” she says, after Yondu's laid out his side of the deal. “Unlike Mantis, I know what a secret is.”

Yondu, perched on a crate in the lightless old store cupboard they've chosen for this lil' tete-a-tete (and hell, but he hopes it ain't one of those store cupboards Peter and his squeeze-of-the-week christened back in the day, but to be honest he's kinda lost track) blinks. Then shrugs, and shows off the many refined ores that compose his grin. “You'll do it for nothin' then. Great.”

Gamora sighs. “It would be _nice_ to take on more Guardians-work...”

“Nuh-uh. If we's hagglin', you don't get to put the price back up.”

“...But I'd want you to make the offer of your own volition, not as a means to make me do something that I would've done anyway.”

Dammit. Does the girl not realize that if she keeps entertaining nonsense-notions like those, she ain't gonna get anywhere in life? A part of Yondu – the part that saw an eight-year-old Terran brat nursing a black eye and a wibbling lip and taught him how to throw a proper punch – wants to amend that. Hell knows why. Girlie ain't _his,_ so why's he thinking he oughta teach her the ways of the galaxy, so she don't get walked all over by those less nice than he is?

Must be because she's the latest in Quill's long line of conquests. And that as she's stuck around more than a week (more than three months, actually) his brain has slotted her into the part that he usually reserves for _permanent fixtures._ Whether or not she will remain there is another matter.

Anyway, she doesn't need his schooling. Greenie's a daughter of Thanos, trained in every art from espionage to the fastest way to remove someone's lungs without the ribs getting in the way.

She wants to act like morals matter? The galaxy is its own best teacher. She'll discover the error of her ways soon enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry for the short chapter! Mun is busyyyyy xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which a console is broken, Drax makes calls on the clock, and Rocket is the best fuzzball an old pirate could ask for.**

It's good that Gamora only requires three hours of sleep. Yondu doesn't know if his shuttle could endure her and her sister sharing close-quarters any longer. He doesn't have the added bonus of foot-thick hull plating, and he certainly has a hard time coping when they're bickering away on bridge, disagreeing over everything from the nav-charts, which they have no clue how to read (and ignoring the poor lass who's doing her utmost to teach them), to why they're still, in Nebula's words, _holidaying on a pirate ship_ when they should be stealing it and flying off to build their anti-Thanos armada.

Yondu pretends not to hear her. That's mighty charitable, by his standards, especially as Kraglin ain't around to make impressed faces at his benevolence. He sits in his chair, massages his forehead, and remembers easier days, simpler days, when he could whistle once and all his problems would be solved.

That option ain't viable. For one, Quill would be mad, and for two, an arrow through the face probably wouldn't slow either of these chicks down.

Rocket offers him a beastie from the carton he’s guzzling. His whiskers are smeared with powder, juice clinging to the hairs around his muzzle. Never one to pass on free snacks, Yondu takes it. He crunches the gelatinous sack of its body, and licks savory orange dust from his fingers. When the second is offered, he takes that too.

“Kinda like one of dem Xandarian soap operas, huh?” He nods to where Gamora and Nebula are exchanging loud accusations. He'll step in before they come to blows, but he's not convinced that they'll listen.

Rocket's laugh sprays Yondu's sleeve with half-chewed flakes, but he's suffered worse spillages over the years. He brushes off the residue, shrugs, licks it, and steals another chewy treat.

“None for Twig?”

“He don't need more than sunlight and water. More for me. Us.”

The addendum is made as an afterthought, but Yondu appreciates it regardless. Rocket doesn't smack Yondu's fingers when they return for the fourth time – although he does on the fifth. “Watch your waistline, old man.”

Yondu cheerfully evades his claws, as Nebula steps up to Gamora and sneers like she's contemplating taking a bite. “Kraglin loves my belly.”

“Gross.”

“Yer snout goes all cute an' wrinkly when yer disgusted. Wanna know what other part of me Kraglin loves? I'll give ya a hint: it's Quill's favorite insult, an' it's mighty tight, considerin' how often we -”

“ _Gross._ ” Rocket shudders. “Thas my cue to take kiddo here to visit someone more child-friendly. Later, Blue.” He scoops up Groot in one paw and the Beasties tin in the other (as Yondu is pleased to note, because he's peckish having missed breakfast and could happily work his way through the whole can of cursed, irresistible high-cholesterol gooey-worms solo). Rocket glances back at him before he vacates the chairarm. “Hey Blue. You called yer man yet?”

Ooh. Yondu doesn't like that. He folds his arms, and selects a glare that will enhance the closed-off posture.

“Ain't no need to.”

“Really?” Rocket eyes the pot of caffeine-concentrate Yondu's been chugging since he dragged his carcass out for public viewing. “I think there's plenty.”

“Yeah, well. Ya don't know shit.”

Rocket winces. “I know Gamora's sister just put her through a console.”

“Aw _hell..._ ”

 

* * *

 

He sets them to work fixing the damn thing, armed with a manual, a spanner, and the knowledge that they can survive several volts beyond what would fry most sentients of a squishier disposition. Rocket offers to supervise, but Yondu shakes his head.

“If Greenie's here and the Big Lug ain't, I'm gonna wanna keep an eye on him. Don't trust him not to put holes in my ship if left unattended. You can be my back-up – I'll even keep the cussin' to a minimum, for kiddo's sake. Just, uh. Leave the Beasties here.”

“Back-up?” Rocket's already situating Groot on his shoulder in preparation for the march into the shuttle's bowels. He spares Yondu an incredulous look.

Yondu amends himself, because he has never and will never require _that._ “As in, ya tell me off if I stab a part of him Quill would miss.”

“Thas more like it. Seriously though, Blue. You sure this is a good idea? Every time you've talked, it's wound up with him trying to punch you. Often through a wall.”

“And failin',” Yondu agrees. Not his fault the idjit's taken it upon himself to avenge Mantis's supposed mistreatment. Equally not his fault that Drax had walked in that one time after he'd restrung trinket-hammocks from his new cabin's ceiling, and was having the girl treat every surviving bauble to some TLC, armed with a duster and a rickety stepladder.

He'd resisted the urge to put her in a frilly maid outfit. Which was lucky, because he doubts anything would have stopped the Destroyer then.

“Whas his deal anyway? He wanna bang her? I ain't stopping him.”

Rocket sneaks him a side-eye. “I guess her and him are like Quill and you, is all.”

Well, that's a steaming crock of bullcrap. Yondu snorts. “If there's one thing I ain't, it's overprotective."

“Yeah,” Rocket agrees, sidling out of range of Yondu's boots as they tramp through the rounded, industrial-styled corridors and barge aside the occasional rookie. “You ain't constantly checking your comm watch _at all._ Definitely not. You just got a bug bite on yer wrist, or somethin'.”

Yondu stops. Glares. He pointedly scratches under the strap; it sits tight to his wristbone, skin discolored from several decades spent lacking sunlight exposure. “You got it, Rat. Now c'mere so I can smack ya properly.”

“Not likely. If you can catch me, old man, you're welcome to smack me all you like.” Then, with a last fangy grin, Rocket scampers ahead. He casts a shadow far larger than himself. It precedes him around corners, making green Ravagers almost jump out of their second-hand leathers.

Yondu ain't found another tailor yet – or at least none on par with his last guy. They're making do with spares rather than form-fitted jumpsuits, and he smirks to himself at the creaking of stiff material and the cussing – both of which cut off smartish as he follows the Rat around.

Fists bang chests on all sides. Yondu treats 'em to a magnanimous nod, upping his pace to keep Rocket's ringtail in his sights. He can't be asked to play chase, although he snickers when Rocket lingers at a fork in the corridor, then darts away from him at the last possible moment, like a dog with a frisbee. The Rat's ready with a quip before Yondu can share that image:

“Whas' the lag, slowpoke? Age catching up with you?”

Yondu trundles along at his own sedate pace, dawdling for the sole purpose of annoying him. “This slowpoke woke up from a coma under a month ago. After savin' yer leader's sorry ass. Have some respect.”

Rocket snickers. “If you wanted _respect,_ you oughta have bonded with Gamora.”

“I – what? We ain't... You an' I ain't _bonding_!”

Rocket nods along. “We ain't bonding, just like you ain't stealing batteries you don't need again.” He sounds so despicably _cheerful_ about it, that's the worst thing. “Ain't gonna work on me. Now c'mon – we're meant to be getting you to move around a bit more as part of _muscular rehabilitation_ an' all that nonsense. So do me a favor and jog for five minutes so Quill and your skinny-man ain't upset when they come back to find your ass atrophied to that chair of yours on the Bridge.”

Yondu jerks his chin up, reminding Rocket he does whatever the hell he wants. He plods along a bit faster – but only to stop him nagging. Then a bit faster still.

By the time they reach the gun rig, where Drax is learning how to operate the heavy laser canons on the shuttle's port side (perhaps Yondu should have been less blasé about allocating this job, given how the man glares at him) they're hurtling through the dingy, pipe-lined tunnels together, grills bouncing and clattering under boot heels and paws. Yondu can feel the bulge of his pulse in his neck. Rocket's grin is so big that some of the rookies mistake it for rabid, and hurl themselves from his path.

“I win,” Rocket announces, smacking the meaty bulge of Drax's calf to proclaim his victory. Yondu doesn't bend over and pant. Just.

“Ya got four legs!”

“And yours are longer!”

Drax gives the both of them an unamused look. They're rare, where he's concerned – the big guy usually finds something to chuckle about, even if most of his humor is based on schadenfreude (a concept Yondu can wholeheartedly get behind. It's a shame Drax doesn't like him – there's ample opportunities for laughing at other folks' expense when you live with the Guardians. In Kraglin's absence, it would be nice to have someone to chuckle with when Nebula next gets impatient and tries to eat uncooked yaro root, rather than waiting for dinner).

“Friends, please. Signal here is terrible.”

“Yer makin' calls on the clock?” Yondu draws himself up, ready to impart some captain-brand discipline. He sags when Mantis's face crackles out of the static, which buzzes across the holoprojecting datapad Drax has hooked up to his commlink. “Oh. Hey, Bug. How's it goin'.”

Bug bobs her head, polite and pretty and demure to a fault. “It's – it's going very well, Y-yondu sir -”

Alright, yeah, maybe this whole petrified-of-him act _is_ getting a bit tiresome. “Don'tchu stand on ceremony, darlin'. How're the, uh, boys?”

Not _my boys,_ but there's enough of a pause between the words that even Mister Literal picks up on it. Yondu barrels on before he can start conjecturing.

“Ain't killed each other yet? Y'all been holed up in that room a mighty long time.”

Mantis shrugs – he can tell, although her shoulders are out of shot, from the way her liquid black hair resettles, pixellating around the edge of the projection feed. “It isn't so bad, s-sir -”

“Yondu, already. Y'all ain't technically my crew.”

“Sir Yondu...”

He sighs. She gets on with it.

“We take it in shifts, so there's only two of us here at a time. It's fun! I'm not supposed to go outside alone because Peter says I'm – What do you say, Peter?”

“Too pure for this goddamn galaxy, that's what. But it's mostly because I know you're not going to use that pistol, even if you get in a fistfight with a Kree.”

Yondu feels muscles he didn't know were tense unwind at Quill's voice. He sounds bored, tinging on exasperation – but that's par-the-course, when the boy's on a stake-out. Never was one for sitting still. He can do it, like Yondu can. But – also like Yondu – he's gonna be one hell of a grumpy bitch for the duration.

That's another reason why Yondu turned down the offer to join them. Well, between that and the report on his desk, which bores deeper into his conscience for every minute he procrastinates. Not that that's what he's doing, with all this running around and corralling Guardians. Nope – that's a vital part of his faction's reconstruction.

If the Guardians are gonna stay – none of them have dropped hints about leaving (except Nebula, but Yondu already has her pegged for a lone wolf); and despite his reticence at being associated with a gang of honest-to-god _heroes,_ Yondu doesn't think he'll kick 'em out – they might as well learn a few tricks. Repairing consoles, firing canons and the like. Which is why Drax has no excuse for using the shuttle gun bay as a private screening booth for whatever he and Mantis had been nattering about before Yondu and Rocket arrived.

Anyway. Why should Drax get to call his lass guilt-free, while Yondu ain't yet plucked up the... well, not _courage;_ he's got that in spades. The willpower? The lack-of-shame? - to tap Kraglin's contact-code into his watch?

It smacks of unfairness. If Yondu doesn't get to talk to the folks he might just possibly care about (but only so marginally that you couldn't tell unless you sliced opened his chest and burrowed in with a miner's torch and a pickaxe) why should anyone else?

“Glad yer doin' alright,” he says shortly, tapping a broken blue nail against the side of the pad. It makes the connection fizzle and Drax's scowl-lines deepen. Man'll be as wrinkled as him, if he keeps this up. “But time you idjits spend starin' at us here is time you oughta be watching for our mark. You got it?”

Mantis slumps. “Yes, Sir Yondu.”

“You don't gotta...” He shakes his head. Not everyone has Kraglin's innate sense of deference. Not even Kraglin himself; Yondu still has to remind him five times out of ten to pepper his sentences with the requisite amount of honorifics. “Forget it. Look, is Kraggles around?”

Not because he _wants_ to talk to him, or because he _needs_ to see his face, so he has something to think of tonight when he's laying awake in between nightmares. Just for business-purposes. Could use a second opinion on this cobbled-together presentation of his...

Mantis perks up. “He's gone to fetch us food. Says he'll be back soon – I'll tell him you called!”

“What? Nah, girlie, don't do that.”

Quill mutters “Typical,” in the background. Yondu knows he's out of whistling range, but is tempted to try regardless. Mantis, meanwhile, looks aghast.

“You want me to _lie?_ ”

Quill's grumbles morph to laughter. As do Rocket's. Even Drax looks on the verge of squeezing out a guffaw. The urge to whistle is growing.

“No, sweetheart,” says Yondu, coaxing his grimace into a grin. “Tell him the truth if you gotta – that I happened to be in the background of one of yer lil' couples calls with Drax here, an' I, uh, merely _enquired as to his whereabouts..._ ”

A rustle of leathers, a crackle of feedback, and a flutter of holopixels, which realign over Quill's smirking mug. It stuffs the thirty square centimeters of the projection with pink skin and smug eyes and what Yondu thinks (totally not out of jealousy, as a man who never shaves but who has yet to cultivate more than chinfluff), is a really fucking stupid moustache. “Call him already, old man. We know you wanna. Watching you force the tough act is about as hard to take seriously as Groot when he's throwing a tantrum.”

If Quill knows him that well, then he also knows that telling Yondu to do something is a prime way to make him disobey out of spite. Telling him to do something, and then comparing him to a toddler-slash-shrub, is guaranteed to have him doing the opposite.

Yondu treats Quill to a close up of the dirt under his middle fingernail. If flouncing was a thing Ravager captains did, that'd be the only way to describe how he turns in a snap of his tatty trenchcoat-tails and stalks for the exit, leaving Rocket, Drax, Quill and co. to chortle their little hearts out.

Dealing with that stars-damned report is infinitely preferable to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for every comment. xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu plots.**

...Dealing with that stars-damned report is _not_ infinitely preferable to this.

Yondu ain't got the first clue where he's supposed to start. Things have changed, since his buttocks last graced a chair around the captains' seven-pointed table. The Ravager ranks have grown and diversified. He's probably supposed to deliver his presentation in three languages, with charades on the side.

But of course, before he starts considering that logistical nightmare, he has to have something to actually present.

And for that...

Well, for that he needs Kraglin.

Guy ain't an infinite font of wisdom, but Yondu works best when he has someone to bounce his ideas off. That's what Kraglin is for him – the wall to his squash ball. Every time he sends a plan hurtling in Kraglin's direction, it returns with more meat on its bones. Kraglin doesn't even have to _do_ anything. Just sit there and look purdy and nod occasionally, while Yondu does all the talking and explains everything to him in minute detail, and consolidates his free-floating thoughts into something comprehensible, and every so often kicks his sounding board when Kraglin gets that goofy little 'I like watching you plot heists' smile.

This ain't anything so simple as a _heist,_ however. It's an intimate catalog of all of Yondu's failures – from the dozy engines to the steady onset of rust, the missing four-fifths of his galleon, and the still-lacking numbers on his canon-fodder registry.

Of course, Stakar ain't gonna _call_ them that. He's just gonna request that Yondu tell him where he stands – give him an expected cost for repairs and resupplies. It's entirely pragmatic, in his eyes. All he wants is for Yondu to start hunting along the trade routes and earning dough rather than draining it.

If he suspects that Yondu visualizes each deficit as a self-contained, pride-punching example of how far he's fallen since he was booted from the Ravagers' court, Stakar will probably make a point of congratulating him on doing so well with so little. In front of _everyone_. Like a stars-damned parent pandering to a child who won the booby-prize.

Then Yondu'll grimace and nod along, because if there's one man he's never been able to say _no_ to (barring his masters, who neither listened nor cared) it's Stakar.

No, he decides, ducking his face close to the holopad as if the glare's gonna ignite inspiration rather than give him a headache. He's gotta do as much as he can alone.

He makes some headway, grinding for five solid hours without break. They're gonna need a big-scoring bust to get them back on the map, and a helluva lot of luck after that, if they want to compete on the same level as the other big fish bandits. But not having to class the other Ravager factions as _potential rivals_ at best and _out-and-out enemies_ at worst is a relief, and luck is surprisingly easy to come by when you have a bank deposit on par with Stakar's behind you. Yondu can't deny that things are looking up.

His old contacts – contacts who no longer affiliate with the flame of Ogord, but who were more than willing to dribble work to his banished faction, if only work of the most dangerous and deadly variety – might give him an edge. Won't be long before they twig that he's back at the table. On that day they'll have to choose between their loyalty to him – negligible – and their hatred of Ogord. Yondu expects to see all of their backs within the month. But for now...

For now, he can capitalize on this. He just needs one damn score. He doesn't need it to be huge. Just unexpected. Impressive enough to make Stakar and his cronies sit up and take note; to prove to them that Yondu don't need no babying, that he can hold his own as one of their number.

The data seems endless. It's strange, being able to scroll past death runs that he'd once had no choice but sign off, because dealing with the collateral was better than letting his remaining men starve. Kinda reminded him of his stint as a battle slave – except that back then, he'd had no autonomy whatsoever, whereas at least in the months following Quill's desertion, when the coffers had been filled with more cobwebs than coins, he could make the choice between potentially dying in a hail of plasma fire or dying at the hands of his ravenous crew.

But nowadays, Yondu ain't licking at the scrapings round the barrel. He's looking for the diamonds buried in the tarring.

The torsion of the data-spool winds out into oblivion. It's a holographic thread that condenses to a molecular-thin beam at either end, splaying out in the center into a readable, palm-sized board of winding letters. It's disorientating to anyone unaccustomed to the constant feed of text. But Yondu learnt to read with one of these things, Stakar's big hand on his shoulder.

He scans it in two flicks, down and back up – and spies his jackpot.

That's when his comm buzzes, of course.

Yondu grits his teeth. He can't break concentration now, not when he's this close. He loses this thread among the multitudes that weave across the bounty-net every second? He never finds it again.

But equally, why would Kraglin call, if it weren't an emergency?

Yondu's forced to make the most of his freedom, of the lack of spiked shackles around his ankles, wrists, and neck that bowed him to another's will, once upon a time. It's only him who can make this choice.

Kraglin, or job? Job, or Kraglin?

It's obvious which has to win.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Another quickie - busy with friends tonight! Comments are cherished.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Rocket fixes a warp drive, and Yondu finally calls Kraglin!! :D**

“I can't believe you hung up on him.”

“Hey now. It ain't ' _hanging up'_ if ya never pick up in the first place.”

“Dammit, Blue.” 

He and the rat are side-by-side, kicking respective boots and paws over the fusion core. It lurks in a shaft which tunnels through the shuttle's central strut, polkadotted with maintenance hatches. Yondu has swung this one open so he and Rocket, crammed in the narrow pipe, can peer out and down – then down, and down, and down some more – into the eerie green glow.

This close, the throb of the engines is so deep it's inaudible. Yondu hears the symphonic overtones instead: energy chirruping as it darts and licks the insides of the plasma-pipes. He's glad he parked himself away from the edge. His legs feel leaden, and although he's scrubbed the sleep grit from his eyes, there's more of it grating at the insides of his overtired brain: an itch scratchable only with eight uninterrupted hours of REM.

Green light reflects from Rocket’s pupils. “You tryin' to get him to leave ya?”

“No! The hell – why'd I do that?”

“Cause he's the best damn thing that's ever happened to you, an' you apparently hate being happy?”

Yondu groans. “Enough with the psycho-anal-y-shit. Yer here to check whatever's malfunctionin' in the warp drive, nothin' more.”

“Why'd ya start telling me about how you, oh I dunno,  _hung up on your first frutarkin' mate_ then, if you didn't want me to get mad at you for it? Hell, Blue. I thought we weren't stealin' batteries no more!”

Yondu's mouth wags for a moment in silence. He's not used to people getting angry at him. Or rather,  _he is;_ he's an argumentative contrary shitbag of a man and proud of it. He's just not used to those same people being ones he (however grudgingly) gives a damn about, and might miss if he killed. 

“I never agreed to that,” he says.

Rocket scoffs. He slithers from their perch, nimbly springing to the first of the workers' rungs. The warp drive is situated down near the fusion core, but they've both popped enough anti-rad pills to negate the roast of the gamma rays. Still, this is far from a cakewalk. Yondu clears his throat.

“You better be back here in fifteen minutes,” he says, clicking his watch setting to 'timer'. “I'm countin'. If you ain't, I'm classin' you as deceased and eating all yer Beasties.”

Rocket's smirk is as exasperated as it's fangy. “Just say 'come back alive' already, old man.”

“Hell no! I want those Beasties to myself.” At Rocket's eye roll, however, he relents. Just a lil'. “An' I don't wanna jinx it. Now scooch along, furball. Clock's a-tickin'.”

 

* * *

 

Rocket hits his deadline, with time to spare. So do Kraglin, Peter, and Bug. 

Which is good, because as much as Yondu hates gags, he hadn't seen any other option last night, and each time he flailed awake had been more terrifying than the last.

“They got him,” Gamora announces at breakfast. Yondu, who's still flinching at loud noises, does so. He scowls at the blob of nutrient gruel that dared drop off the edge of his spoon. Drax opens his mouth to say something, but is deterred by Gamora's elbow, which digs with a cyborg's precision into his nipple.

“Ow!”

“There was a wire tap in the room,” continues Greenie, as if she's oblivious. “Our mark as good as confessed. The Corps have everything they need for a trial.”

“So,” Rocket continues, embellishing the tale after Gamora stands, carrying her bowl to the crockery-depository chute, “Our guys-an’-girl are all fine and dandy, and due home this evening. In case anyone who's too goddam stubborn to use a commlink cares.”

Nebula tosses her head. “Why should I care about your Terran – Oh. You aren't talking to me.”

Ain't she a sharp one. Yondu crosses his arms. This whole pantomime of a report is for his and Nebula's benefit. Sounds like Gamora, Drax, and Rocket have been in daily contact with their teammates. And as Yondu has already sussed that Nebula doesn't love anyone or thing besides herself (and possibly her sister) that means he's the only a-hole who's shirking his duties.

Duties as a father (he manages to think it without wincing, which is a marked improvement). And as a whatever-the-hell-he-is-to-Kraglin, of course.  _Cap’n_ is easiest, and most familiar, and so he sticks with it.

“Okay,” he growls. Light pulses from his implant like the warning strobe of a star pending supernova. “You've had yer fun. Breakfast hour's over. Scat.”

The Guardians-plus-Nebula do so. But not without Rocket sneaking in one final meaningful squint, before he scoops Groot onto his shoulder and saunters off to steal wiring from electrical bits he doesn't think Yondu will miss.

Yondu waits until the canteen is deserted. He glowers at the lingering rookies until they tuck their half-squeezed protein packs into their pockets and scarper. Then, and only then, does he allow himself to take a long hard look at his watch.

It's still clicked onto the timer setting, from his and Rocket's jaunt to the engines. When he gives the outer casing a turn, bezel clicking from groove to groove, Kraglin's mugshot is first to appear on his tiny viewscreen.

Top of his speed-dial. 

It’s a recent picture, snapped when a job went awry and Yondu had to fish Kraglin out of a Nova holding cell before he could be dragged off to the Kyln. He looks greying and ratty and perfect, louring into the camera like he's considering sharpening his teeth on it.

Yondu smirks, unable to resist giving the teeny-tiny mohawk a pat. Too hard a pat, as the case may be. The hologram splutters into life, taking the ugly mugshot and sketching it in three dimensions, close enough that Yondu could plant a smooch on Kraglin’s sneer, were he so inclined.

_Calling: Kraggles._

Shit.

Yondu flaps. It ain’t his most graceful moment - he damn near falls off his chair, windmilling with his other arm and smacking the watch off his thigh until it falls silent. Once assured the call has been cancelled, he presses a hand over the flame on his chest. His heart beats hard enough that he convinces himself he can feel it through the coat and underjacket: the crusty strata of leather and grime.

_Double shit._

He needs rest – uninterrupted, at that. He needs not to be a ball of nerves when Kraglin walks through that door. He needs a goddamn  _plan,_ because the end of the month is fast-approaching, and the table of captains awaits him, ominous as the guillotine that’s in store should he ever stray too far into Kreespace.

“Hell,” he hisses. He scrabbles for his watch again, and flicks through familiar faces, dead and alive – he knows he oughta delete Tullk, like he has for Oblo and the other Ravagers who got shot into the gloom during the uprising; but he can't quite bring himself to – until he finds the five most recent. “Oi, Greenie?”

“Yondu?” She's still working on that console. Yondu can see Nebula's arm, semi-converted into a multitool. It bobs about behind her, in the inch of space around her projected face, before the hologram fizzles to the drab red-grey of the canteen. “Is everything alright? Are you...” Her gaze hones in. Yondu can't hear the telescopic zoom effect, but his imagination fills it in. Whatever she sees, it makes that stars-blasted empathy creep over her face. “Did you have another... Last night?”

Features cast in a smelting crucible ain't got no right to look so  _soft_.

“No,” Yondu deadpans. “An' I'm gonna nap before our idjits get home because I'm an old man and I need my post-brunch siesta. So do me a favor and don't let no one disturb me, yeah?”

“Of course.” And okay, so maybe her dumb sentiment ain't wholly repulsive – because she spares him a small smile and a nod, one Yondu suspects he might just be able to trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **huehuehue. Never fear - one more chapter to go, and everything works out alright in the end.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin wakes Yondu, and everything's alright in the end.**

He regrets that trust in due order, when he's woken from the next nightmare by hands.

Hands,  _ on him. _

They grab his head, squeezing his temples to buckling point. More clasp his wrists and ankles, immobilizing each limb as if he has been clapped in magnicuffs. He's left squirming and helpless, crest quivering at each thrum of the energy blade, as Master readies it to cut...

Yondu's nostrils flare. He boots the Kree in the bollocks, making a horrible strangled noise. Quieter than it ought to be, thanks to the belt clamped between his teeth. He’s champed the leather. It's soft from the gnash of his molars, and the edges have chiseled their imprint into his cheeks. And he’s gotta get it out, he’s gotta  _ whistle,  _ he’s gotta  _ defend himself…. _

...Only that guy’s real skinny-looking, for a Kree. And very, very pale.

For a moment, Yondu's brain delivers the memory of the white Kree underclass, only a tier above the slaves. But then he sees hair where Kree have none, clipped in a Mohawk. The scraggly stripe bows towards him as the guy hunches, cradling his crotch in a standing foetal curl.

Not to mention the burgundy leather. The glint in his hand, which Yondu had mistaken for a blade, is actually a trinket, currently clutched tight enough for cracks to spiderweb the glass.

“Krah-yn,” Yondu gurgles round the gag. He sags against the sheets, scrunching his nose as they cling to clammy flesh.

He hadn't been trying to wrestle him onto his front at all. Just cradle his head so he didn't jar the prosthetic on the headboard. And this is the thanks he gets for it?

Yondu finds the belt buckle while Kraglin's still bent at the waist and wheezing. It takes several attempts to fumble it undone – heart still racing, hands still shaking; no time to perform his usual calm-down ritual (impossible when a gag's wedged in his mouth anyways). Eventually though, he wrenches the strap loose of the clasp and flings it to one side, buckle snapping at his shoulder and the taste of the leather sour against his tongue. “ _ Kraglin... _ ”

“Hell sir,” Kraglin chokes, still pinched at the knees. His face is bright red, sweat-glazed from the pain. “Didn't bother with a cup for this 'un.”

Ouch. Yondu's too daze-headed to smother his sympathetic wince. He mops the worst of the drool away, and the dampness from round his eyes. 

Just sweat, that's all. Sweat pooled in his eye sockets, crusting his lashes so thickly it feels like he's been standing under saltspray. Yeah, thassit.

“I gotcha pretty good, huh. You still gonna be able to use that thing?”

He's still panting, still breathless. His thoughts are sluggish with leftover adrenaline; he can’t filter it fast enough to stop the shivers. But that's okay. Because as Kraglin unfolds – wincing, hissing, ruefully rubbing his crotch – he looks Yondu straight in the face and smiles. Doesn't take no notice of all those tells; the sweat and the damp lashes and the bruises from the belt; each written as clearly as the lashmarks on his back, chronicling his weaknesses in stripes.

“I reckon it'll survive, boss.”

Kraglin takes a step – then halts, head tipping in question. Only when Yondu issues a nod (the regality of which is somewhat lacking, given how much he's trembling) does he sit. 

His bony ass slices dual dents into the mattress foam. He doesn't touch Yondu. But equally, he doesn't make an overt effort  _ not  _ to. Just perches an arm's length away, placing the lil' glass offering between them, and letting Yondu bask in every uniquely Kraglinesque feature.

Beaky nose in profile. Scruffy beard, thick around the jaw and thinning at the hairline, bald over the slice of an old scar. Irises that vacillate between blue and grey the longer you look at them.

Yondu's glad Kraglin breaks that contact. He could've stared all day, mapping the fluxing eye colors in his memorybanks so that not even senility could wash 'em away.

...And that's one hell of a mushy thought. They've only spent a week apart. What is this – his first hit of sentiment after withdrawal? Ugh.

“Gamora said I shouldn't disturb ya, sir,” Kraglin continues, addressing his lap. “'Pparently you ain't been sleepin' too good.” He's wise enough not to mention why. “Figured I oughta leave you to rest – was just gonna come in and dump my crap, and head back out to make sure the newbs ain't fucking up the M-ship docking procedures.”

There's a 'but then' coming, although Yondu ain't gonna prompt it. Kraglin glances at him, almost bashful, almost  _ apologetic,  _ holding his tenderized nutsack like he thinks he's the one who's in the wrong. “Ya gagged yerself,” he says.

“You gagged yerself,  _ sir. _ ”

“Hilarious as ever.”

“Hilarious as ever -”

“I gottit, sir.” A pause. “Was that you tryin' to distract me?”

“Was that you tryin' to distract me  _ sir _ -”

“Yeah, boss. You've made yer point. New topic.” Kraglin pointedly flicks the belt away, from where it had caught on the join between their pushed-together headboards. Yondu is slumped over the crease between the mattresses, which devours unit-chits, odd socks, datapads, and occasionally Kraglin, if he rolls in the night. Perks of being a skinny shit. Sometimes if Yondu loses something, he'll send the guy spelunking – and not always with prior consent. On those occasions, when he pulls Kraglin out the guy's Mohawk is greyer than ever with dustbunnies, and he's usually got crushed spiders caught in his stubble like leftovers from the canteen.

“Alright.” Yondu pushes to sit crosslegged – then crosses his arms too, just to close off his body language that bit more. He's chosen to sleep in his pants and shirt, because he's learnt that if there's one thing worse than waking up post-nightmare in an unfamiliar bed, it's doing so naked. Now the material hangs off him, heavy and waterlogged, sticking to his stomach and the staples that pin his pouch. He pulls a face as he tugs at his neckhole, peeling the fabric from his skin. “New topic then. Why didn't ya call me?”

“Huh?” Kraglin's eyes go adorably round. They flick between Yondu and his watch. Noticing how his shadow falls on his face, Kraglin elects to shunt to the very edge of the mattress so light can reach Yondu over him.

Yondu appreciates it. It’s not the gesture itself - his scarecrow of a first mate ain’t the scariest loomer. It's the  _ emotion  _ behind it (as hard as that is to admit). Here is a man who’s trying his utter fucking best, reading all the signs and a few that either ain’t actually there or are being projected subconsciously, and tempering his entire countenance to match.

Just knowing there's someone like that in his life makes one of the many, many worry knots unwind from his chest. But the expression on Kraglin's face – confused, bewildered, but rapidly approaching an epiphany that he ain't got no right to be eureka-ing about without Yondu's input – soon retightens it.

“What.”

“I was waiting for ya to call first. Because yer my cap'n, sir, and I ain't one to intrude if yer busy. Plus, you told me you were gonna be workin' on that report and didn't wanna be disturbed.”

_ Sure,  _ Yondu had  _ said  _ that _ ,  _ but...

“So ya choose to listen to my orders when I don't want ya to? Go figure.”

There's that small smile again. Kraglin sees through his bluster. Rocket does it instinctually, and Peter and Gamora are learning, but Kraglin has the benefit of decades of experience. The warmth in his eyes is so damn snug and familiar that Yondu's heart finally stops trying to palpitate out of his chest, nestling in its cavity with a happy purr. “I listen to yer orders all the time, sir. Yer sayin’ ya  _ wanted  _ me to call ya?”

Aw, hell.

“Maybe,” Yondu says, glowering at the far wall in lieu of Kraglin, “I coulda been clearer. Maybe.” Not that he'd  _ known  _ what he wanted, but...

“Maybe,” Kraglin agrees. Then adds “sir,” before Yondu can remind him. They sit, for a minute or several, until Yondu's calmed enough to stop shivering. He's even got his eyes closed, confident that the gradient in the mattress is thanks to Kraglin's bony ass, and nobody else's.

“Hey sir?” Kraglin asks, after enough time has elapsed that Yondu's started to think about food, in the wistful way of someone too comfortable and lazy to do anything about it. “How's the heist plannin' going? Y'know, for Stakar?”

Ah, work. Finally, a field Yondu can navigate without feeling like he's floundering in a sea of mush. He thumbs at the cluttered table. He shifted it from one of the holds in the hopes of expanding his workplace, but it’s already dripping with more trinkets than datapads. “First on the left.”

“My left, or yours?”

“Mine, of course.”

Kraglin retrieves the pad, and Yondu resists the urge to bestow a pat and a 'good boy'. Not because he doesn't think Kraglin would enjoy it, but... Well, then they'd only get distracted. He does want to share his stroke of genius, after all.

Kraglin, unfortunately, doesn't agree with that definition. The glow highlights the frownlines that deepen on his forehead whenever Yondu does something dumber than usual.

“This is a solo, sir. Who's gonna take it?”

“Well, I am!” Obviously. Yondu wriggles higher up the cushion. “Ain't none of y’all who could walk out of that hellpit alive.”

“Hm.” Kraglin looks consternated, borderline constipated. The sort of expression he gets when he considers contradicting Yondu, then remembers the mutiny and all the Ego-nonsense which followed it, and sits shtum until Yondu pries his criticisms out of him by force. Yondu scoffs.

“You don't like it, huh.”

“It's dangerous.”

“So'm I!”

“Ain't no one denying that. But... c'mon, sir. At least take me along with you.”

“Hell no!” The mission in question – which will see Yondu dropped into a teeming nest of Klyntar, to retrieve an artifact that Quill would no doubt describe as 'maltese falcon-esque', all while hoping none of the gooey black fuckers attach to him and infect his mind – is gonna be hard enough for one guy armed with a whistle-propelled arrow. Any tagalongs are guaranteed to scupper it. Yondu pokes Kraglin in the leg. “C'mon, you got yer chance to flounce off for a week. Think yer the only one tired of the insides of these walls?”

During the mutiny, the  _ Eclector  _ paid a hefty toll. Four fifths of her mass, to be precise. Yondu, with an infamous hatred of cages, can now pace from one end to the other in less than five minutes, much to his disdain.

“Just wanna get outside a bit,” he tells Kraglin, placing the pad besides the lil’ glass doobry. Its projection carves a bright crescent overhead, like the half-blinked eye of a Celestial colossus, depicting the gouge in the infested asteroid through which Yondu is to squeeze. “It'll do me good to spread my legs.”

Kraglin chokes. Yondu frowns, before the Freudian slip registers. Then he has to choose between dashing the pad against his own skull or laughing at himself. He selects the latter, but not without deliberation.

“ _ Stretch.  _ Stretch them.”

“Fuck sir,” Kraglin gasps, in between swallowed chuckles – because he knows from experience that laughing at his cap'n only gets him boxed ears. “It's only been a week. I mean, if you wanna, I'm up for it. Just don'tchu go invitin’ no Klyntar. I ain't into that.”

That's something they can agree on. Although -

Yondu chuckles, dirty and low. He collapses onto his side and pats for Kraglin to recline too. No chance of another freak out - he’s well awake now. It's Kraglin in front of him, and Kraglin alone, and there ain't never gonna be a day where his dumb beaky face doesn't make Yondu feel like he's come home. “Think of dem tongues though.”

“M'tryin' really hard not to, boss.”

The glow of the pad is a soft fresh-shoot green, of the sort Yondu might associate with early spring and snowdrops if there was any seasonal variation in space, or if Ravagers tended to allotments. It makes Kraglin's sallow cast more sickly than ever, like he's about to sprint for the waste chute and reproduce whatever he'd last digested. When he reaches out, broaching the distance between them, and rubs at a welt left by the belt, Yondu snaps  – playfully only, but with a hint of warning, just in case Kraglin ruins the moment by saying something sappy.

Kraglin opens his mouth. Yondu prepares to bite. But - thankfully, for Kraglin's continued ability to pull triggers, and finger Yondu before they fuck - what spills out ain't no heartfelt declaration.

“Y'know,” Kraglin says carefully. His fingertips skate along the bruised stripe to rest against parted lips. “They caught the forger, but he ain't spilled the juicy details on his cache just yet.”

Yondu nips. He catches Kraglin’s index between two chipped incisors, mumbling around it: “What'chu sayin'?”

The slow, liquid pooling of Kraglin's pupils, widening until they eat up that pretty blue-grey, almost has Yondu forsaking the pad and the bauble between them and rolling to straddle him there and then.

“I'm sayin', sir, that right now there's a pretty chunk of new-minted Xandarian unit chits stashed in a warehouse somewhere, ready to be released to the market. Not quite enough to crash the economy, but enough to put a mighty decent dent in it. Reckon it'll make a good bargaining chip, and earn you a hefty sum from either the Xandarians or the Kree should we find it first. Maybe even enough to catch Stakar's attention.”

He's laying it on too thick. Yondu should scold him for that. He can't have the man he entrusts with haggling over his trinkets getting rusty at suggestive manipulation. 

“So,” he says. He spits out the finger but catches Kraglin's hand, holding it balled so he can dot kisses between his knuckles after every sentence. “You sayin' we should double-cross the Nova corps?” Kiss. “Let 'em give us missions, then work behind their back to steal the real prize?” Kiss. “You sayin' we should be scum-suckin', good-for-nothin' cheats, liars, and general a-holes?” Kiss again. “ Issat what yer sayin', Obfonteri?” 

Kraglin shrugs, but he can't hold his pokerface. A wicked smirk slithers across it, one Yondu wants pressed to any part of him. His knuckles bunch, where Yondu's chapped lips linger over weathered skin. They let him feel their bony imprint, the threat against anything and anyone who stands between them. “Ravagers, sir,” he says.

Yondu can't fault that. And hey – if there's one thing pirates love, it's a treasure hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A little epilogue still to come, because I suck at chapter counts! Please leave comments - I adore each and every one.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin and Yondu create life - if not in the old-fashioned way.**

“How's Junior doin' anyway, sir?”

“Good, good. Think I saw him twitch yesterday.”

“Huh.”

The silence drifts back in. Yondu dares call it comfortable. But, as usual, he doesn't allow himself to enjoy it.

“Wait a moment. Krags, if you was waitin' on me to comm ya, why'd you call?”

“Huh?”

They're halfway through the day's last shift. Yondu's sleep schedule, as he'd suspected, is severely fucked - he's already made his peace with the fact that he's gonna turn up to the Captains' Meeting rocking a seriously grouchy case of jetlag.

The nightmares ain't stopped, despite the back tucked to his chest. The damp patch may be under Yondu's ass rather than Kraglin's, but they've come to the agreement, mutual yet unspoken, that falling asleep while captain is little spoon ain't a good idea. Most likely, it never will be. At least with this position, when he wakes up and his brain tries to convince him there's a collar around his neck, Yondu can orientate himself while Kraglin takes up his vision: a frail, hairy blockade that stands between him and his past.

Yondu harbors a mild concern that one of these mornings – or mid-afternoons, as the case may be – he ain't gonna come back to himself fast enough. On that day, he really _is_ gonna freak and stick his arrow between Kraglin's ribs. But something tells him that if he sneakily gags himself after Kraglin's passed out, he will wake in the morning with the belt undone, and Kraglin's arms wrapped around him from the front, smug grin buried against his chest.

Whether by luck or chance or answered prayers, accidental stabbing of the whistly variety ain't yet occurred. Yondu has elected to steal an emergency kit from the medbay and stash it under his bedside cabinet, so that when it does - as he’s convinced it will, with a fatalist’s certainty – he will at least be prepared, and have a pressure patch and some antiseptic swabs on hand.

“Y'know,” he continues, into Kraglin's nape. Fuzz tickles his mouth, flattening when he breathes. “When you rang me and I. Uh.”

“You were busy?”

“Yeah.” Ain't even a lie. “Didya miss me?”

“Course I did.”

Yondu blinks. The ribcage he's snuggled up against expands and contracts steadily, no hint of a lie. “You ain't supposed to _admit it.”_

“I ain't?”

“Takes all the fun outta teasin' ya, that.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Mm.” Yondu nudges the first knobble of Kraglin's spine, which has been poking him in the nose for the past hour. “You will be. Once I get up.”

Kraglin presses back against him, an eel of sinew and stale breath. His teeth, when he flicks a grin over his shoulder, glint as bright as his crinkled blue eyes. “Which part of ya, boss?”

“Har-dee-har. Save it for tomorrow?”

A snigger, a roll that tangles their bare legs, a gaunt chest rubbing on his. Their nuzzle makes stubble grate like rubbed kindling.

“Sounds good by me, sir,” Kraglin says. He tosses one arm to rest on his captain's waist. Yondu loops it there a little firmer, before draping his own over Kraglin's shoulder, pinning them face-to-face so each has to suffer the other's halitosis.

The kiss tastes almost as bad as it smells. But the galaxy doesn't need saving today, and Junior has mulched to the point where he resembles primordial soup. The presentation ain't getting any more done, not while Yondu rolls about in bed with his mate. However, as he has the basic framework of a plan in place, extrapolation should come naturally.

For now? The universe owes them five more minutes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Who had forgotten Junior, Kraglin and Yondu's pet sock-mold monster? XD I couldn't leave him in the lurch. Hope you enjoyed, and drop me a comment to celebrate yet another completed fic! xxx**

**Author's Note:**

> **Leave me comments! I love 'em.**


End file.
